Editorial: Furiosa is the True Hero of "Mad Max"

AGE OF FURIOSA by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Charlize Theron as Furiosa, a warrior in a bleak future. Photo ©Warner Bros. Pictures

 

“My name…is Max.”  Those are the first immortal words of “Mad Max: Fury Road,” George Miller’s ferocious tornado of car chases, uglified evil, and grimy nobility.  Yet the film is not really Max’s story.  Properly, it belongs to Furiosa (Charlize Theron), the buzz cut-sporting, grease-smeared warrior who ushers Max out of his post-apocalyptic funk and into the service of a righteous cause. 

            When we meet Furiosa, she’s glaring behind a steering wheel, getting ready to pick up some gas at the behest of the obese warlord Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne).  But as Furiosa drives across the limitless dessert (the film was shot in Namibia), we see a flash of white flitting through her monstrous metal truck.  It’s a young girl wearing a flimsy dress—one of Joe’s many sex slaves, who Furiosa is smuggling to safety.

Mr. Miller has said that the slaves were his way of making the movie’s MacGuffin “human.”  Yet they are not mere plot devices.  That quick shot of the girl and the dress not only reveals Furiosa’s mission, but works as visual shorthand—a symbolic cry that even in this dystopian world of grotesque cruelty and machinery, there is innocence and hope.  That’s why, early on, we see a message for Joe from the slaves, blotted in white paint: “Our babies will not be warlords.”  It is a poignant, defiant declaration, and a signal that Mr. Miller has no interest in simply wallowing in the horror of the dystopian future he has envisioned.  He wants to inspire us.

            That inspiration grabs its pummeling power from the film’s zany thrills.  In each moment of merciless suspense (like scene where the wheels of Furiosa’s truck get caught in wet sand), the human drama and the action feed each other energy, creating volcanic bursts of adrenaline and emotion.  Yet it is the climax of the movie that means the most.  We may live in an age where villains are constantly resurrected for the sake of their prospering franchises (here’s looking at you, Loki).  But there is a shocking, thrilling finality to the battle between Furiosa and Joe.  “Remember me!” she seethes. 

Then she smashes his head.

            When I saw “Fury Road” at the Lloyd Center 10 theater, the audience cheered as Joe’s skull was quashed like a blood-soaked bowling ball.  A barbaric reaction?  Hardly.  Joe is a dictator and his gruesome end feels like justice.  We’ve watched this man starve and torture his subjects, not to mention the off-screen rapes (several of Joe’s slaves are pregnant).  His death is a victory for all, especially the women he’s exploited. 

            Hence the final scene of the film.  Like Joseph Gordon-Levitt ascending to become the new Batman in “The Dark Knight Rises,” Furiosa stands atop a rising platform at the film’s end, far above a cheering crowd liberated from Joe’s tyranny.  From on high, Furiosa exchanges a nod with Max as he disappears into the crowd bellow.  It affirms their solidarity and yet visually, Furiosa remains above him. 

            The future belongs to this woman.

Movie Review: "Jurassic World" (Colin Trevorrow, 2015)

LOST WORLD FOUND: A “JURASSIC WORLD” REVIEW by Maxwell Meyers

Above: a dinosaur. Photo ©Universal Pictures

 

Before there were superheroes, amorous vampires, Transformers, witches, wizards and whatever the hell Channing Tatum is, there was one king of the box office—dinosaurs.  In fact, Steven Spielberg’s raptors-gone-wild epic “Jurassic Park” was more than just a blockbuster—it was a pop culture phenomenon, one that even made my fiancé consider becoming a paleontologist.  Now, with a little help from Mr. Spielberg (who remains onboard as an executive producer), the franchise has returned in the form of “Jurassic World,” which has already overshadowed the original film at the box office.  Whether it eclipses it artistically is another matter.

            With typical summer movie-panache, “Jurassic World” leads us back to the original flick’s signature location—an island theme park of roving, reincarnated dinosaurs.  Still, the park’s greatest menace is not its computer-generated tyrannosaurus rexes, but the sneering millennials who ruin the fun with their determination to remain unimpressed.  Apparently, a T-Rex eating a goat doesn’t cut the mustard anymore, which is why CEO and park manager Claire (a beautiful redhead played by Bryce Dallas Howard, not Jessica Chastain) decides to create the ultimate dino-park attraction—Indominus Rex, a killing machine bred from the DNA of myriad ferocious creatures.

Wrangling this mad-science saga (Indominus ultimately escapes and wreaks havoc across the island) is director Colin Treverrow.  He’s not an obvious choice for the material; his last film was the microscopic indie “Safety Not Guaranteed.”  Yet that movie may well have prepared him for this new one; throughout “Jurassic World,” he manages to focus on the kind of delicate visual details and intimate moments that often get lost in the shuffle of a plotline involving killer dinosaur rampage.  What’s more, he does a wonderful job of creating shots similar to the original’s while imbuing the film with his own flair.  Because of that, “Jurassic World” truly is an entertaining adventure, one packed with delightfully scary monstrosities, a few majestic herbivores, and a perfect score by Academy Award-winning composer Michael Giacchino (his music sounds like an artfully creepy re-do of John Williams’ score for the first “Jurassic” movie).

Still, “Jurassic World” sometimes falters in its brilliance.  Above all, I have to ding the movie for one thing—the characterization of Claire.  She’s not a terrible character (she does get her fair share of the action).  Yet following the feminist high of “Mad Max: Fury Road,” a movie that forces its uptight career gal to rely on a Indiana Jones-esque dinosaur trainer (played by all-around great human Chris Pratt) and frantically run around in high heels can’t help but seem painfully outdated.  In fact, even when “Jurassic World” shows its characters in silhouette, they’re reduced to retrograde gender stereotypes—the tough male adventurer and the woman wrapped in elegant furs.

Still, I would give this movie a B-.  Mr. Trevorrow adds enough interesting twists to make “Jurassic World” definitely worth the price of admission keep families entertained; in the process, he reinvigorates an excellent franchise, even if his film is missing that elusive little extra something that could have sent it to the next level.  Now, hopefully he can keep the momentum going and unleash more crazy shenanigans in the next “Jurassic Park” installment.

In Memoriam: James Horner (1953-2015)

THANK YOU, JAMES by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

 

Who was James Horner?  On paper, a composer of film scores, the man whose musical pirouettes roused films like “Avatar,” “Titanic,” and “The Wrath of Khan.”  But if you’ve heard his music, you know better.  Because James Horner did not simply write music—he created sounds that swirled with hope and wonder and emotion, suites to jumpstart the pulse and tinge the heart at the same time.

            And now he’s gone.  Just this morning, I read that Mr. Horner died in a plane crash.  He was sixty-one years old; the plane he was flying was his own.  But honestly, I think that’s beside the point.  All that matters right now is that we’ve lost someone, the creator of some of the sweetest and most beautiful film scores in existence.

            James Horner came to Hollywood’s attention with the “Khan” score, a masterpiece of delicate string motifs as excitingly nimble as nimble as a ballerina’s footsteps.  More recently, he resurfaced to write music for “The Amazing Spider-Man” and even under the shadow of original Spidey scorer Danny Elfman, he reached for the heights with a brilliant choral-infused symphony that rose with Peter Parker to the tips of Manhattan’s skyscrapers.

            And yet Mr. Horner’s greatest achievement came before that.  It began in 1986, when he composed music for James Cameron’s sci-fi action blood fest “Aliens”—a satisfactory score, but only a hint of what was to come in what would emerge as the most iconic Horner-Cameron collaboration of all time.  I am speaking, of course, of “Titanic.”

            To many, Mr. Horner will always be the composer of “My Heart Will Go On,” the gently haunting love ballad that plays over the end credits of “Titanic.”  But his mastery extends beyond that one theme.  Go back and watch the early scene in the movie where Leonardo DiCaprio stares down at the ocean streaming bellow him, watching a pair of dolphins slip through the clear waters—you’ll find that makes that moment wondrous is not only Russell Carpenter’s sunlit cinematography, but Mr. Horner’s deft blend of pulsating electronic beats and awestruck vocal flourishes.

            I could say more about the music.  But enough.  There’s only one thing that needs to said—thank you, James.  Thank you for all of the grand, hopeful, romantic, modern, and heartfelt music you gave us.  The joy your work has given me is beyond compare and if you’re out there, know that I am with you in spirit, forever in your debt.

            Goodbye, James, and once again, thank you.

Editorial: Why "Jurassic World" Topped the Box Office

THE GREEN DINO RISES by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

 

 Yes, it’s true—I shrieked like a pterodactyl when I saw how much money “Jurassic World” made this past weekend.  In fact, I’m still in shock.  $208 million?  The biggest opening weekend of all time?  Even the film’s distributor, Universal Pictures (a box office overachiever this year, thanks to “Furious 7” and “Fifty Shades of Grey”) didn’t dare hope for that much (the studio projected around $100 million).  So what explains the movie’s shark-chomping success?

            Not a great deal.  To a certain degree, the course of ticket sales and the choices of moviegoers will always be wily and hard to chart; for every “San Andreas” that meets expectations, there will always be an “American Sniper” that defies them.  Yet there are a few trends that help explain why “Jurassic World” may yet rampage financially past every 2015 release not called “Star Wars.”

            To a certain degree, moviegoers crave predictability; the recognition of a familiar character like Robert Downey Jr.’s Tony Stark is often all it takes to fill theater seats.  In that vein, “Jurassic World” is familiar in a way that sells tickets—it’s the forth movie in a popular series and boasts a leading man (Chris Pratt, of “Guardians of the Galaxy”) whose face has been increasingly visible across digital screens and magazine covers.

            Still, recognition is no guarantee of success.  Sure, franchises like “Harry Potter” will always be welcomed by their fans, but audiences still crave novelty, which partly explains why a reported $16 million worth of cinephiles decided to sit out “Avengers: Age of Ultron” when it opened this past May.  That film may have been a sequel to one of the highest-grossing films of all time, but it lacked the sort of high-concept hook (like the elaborate time travel gimmick of last year’s “X-Men: Days of Future Past”) that could have expanded its audience. 

            The hi-jinks of “Jurassic World” couldn’t be called high-concept either; the movie was marketed as a family adventure about fleeing from and hunting for computer-generated dinosaurs.  Yet its trailers exuded an aura of freshness that “Age of Ultron” couldn’t claim.  The last “Jurassic” movie debuted in 2001; ticket buyers have had plenty of time to wash its taste out of their mouth.  In other words, “Jurassic World” looked just familiar enough that most people knew what they were paying for, yet had a slight tinge of novelty—it felt fresher than a new “Avengers,” yet not as foreign as an “Interstellar.”

            I’m tempted to launch into a moaning diatribe about how the monetary triumph of yet another violence-packed sequel can only degrade cinema.  Then again, George Miller’s wonderful “Mad Max: Fury Road” is also the fourth chapter of an ongoing saga.  And on the indie front, even as “Jurassic World” clawed through the record books, the Sundance hit “Me and Earl and the Dying Girl” scored a $210,000 debut—a start even more promising than that of the Oscar-winning “Whiplash” (another Sundance spawn).

            In the end, “Jurassic World” and “Me and Earl” may both have a part to play in movie history, albeit in very different ways.

Movie Review: "Aloha" (Cameron Crowe, 2015)

CROWE ON VACATION by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Emma Stone brightens up Mr. Crowe's movie.  Photo ©Columbia Pictures and 20^TH Century Fox

 

What’s the matter with “Aloha”?  According to the proverbial pundits, everything.  Since opening at the close of May, Cameron Crowe’s sunny opus has been savaged for its sloppy filmmaking and its “paltry” $10 million debut.  Yet basking in this messy movie’s mild charm, I couldn’t help feeling forgiving.  “Aloha” may not be perfect (is any Cameron Crowe movie perfect?), but it does zap you with a clean dose of ocean-side effervescence and snappy theatrics from Emma Stone.

            With grace and gusto, Ms. Stone upstages every member of the movie’s ensemble, including Bradley Cooper, who plays some guy named Brian Gilcrest.  Brian, we are told is a war veteran…and also a mercenary…and, wait a minute, a computer hacker too?  Forget it.  Mr. Crowe doesn’t care about the finer points of the character; there’s little point in trying to pin down his rather loose imagination as he sets Brian loose in Hawaii and lets romantic merriment unfold.

            Enter Captain Allison Ng (Ms. Stone), a fighter pilot assigned to keep an eye on Brian as he irons the kinks in the relationship between Hawaiian activist Dennis “Bumpy" Kanahele (who plays himself with easygoing, masterly assurance) and the billionaire developer Carson Welch (Bill Murray).  What Kanahele doesn’t realize is that Brian is backing Carson’s planned launch of a dubious (and illegal) new missile—something that infuriates the unfailingly good-hearted Allison.

            So there’s a current of uneasiness coursing through this breezy comedy.  Mr. Crowe, however, is not a pessimist—if he values anything, it is love buoyed by mischief.  Hence Ms. Stone’s ingenious physicality— whenever she salutes, she looks like she’s swiping a saber through the air, so fiercely that you can practically hear the whoosh of her arm.  In many ways, she makes Allison into a goofy cartoon, a sketch of an uptight soldier frantically scratched out in the pages of Mad magazine.  Yet that is precisely what makes the character so poignant, and also why Ms. Stone is sometimes able to focus “Aloha” with the acting equivalent of an electric shot. 

            And what of Mr. Cooper?  Brian is not meant to be loveable (there’s a throwaway line about “compromises” he’s made).  But did Mr. Cooper have to bludgeon his smarmy grin against the camera in every scene?  Every talk, fight, or kiss seems to the result of or a prelude to yet another creepy spread of his lips to reveal his (admittedly gorgeous) teeth.  Sure, Mr. Cooper is a ripe talent (if you gorge on only one performance this week, be sure it’s his boyishly nasty turn in “American Hustle”).  But he comes off as too cocky and disingenuous for what is, in the main, a conventional romantic comedy.

            “Conventional” could describe pretty much everything Mr. Crowe does—the “neurotic boy meets gorgeous girl” formula is the core of all his movies.  But he has a way of countering predictability with eccentricity, as evidenced by a scene in “Aloha” where Mr. Cooper starts howling out of a car window like a coyote.  Ditto for the rhythm of the movie; Mr. Crowe’s zest for fast talk may make him a forerunner of Marvel movie freneticism, but he has a way of softening the marathon by elongating scenes far beyond the norm.

This tactic is most noticeable during a lengthy sequence where Brian and Allison hike up a woodsy slope to Mr. Kanahele’s home, while the camera calmly follows in their wake.  With its leisurely pace, the scene might remind you of another stretched-out cinematic moment—the sweet and goofy graduation party in Mr. Crowe’s first movie, “Say Anything.”  “Aloha” doesn’t feature anything as spectacularly iconic, but it is possible to glimpse the same spark of comedic life, gently peaking through.    

Movie Review: "Spy" (Paul Feig, 2015)

OUTGUNNED by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

I can’t envision a studio comedy packed with more outlandish gags than Paul Feig’s “Spy”—the movie’s pranks involve (but are not limited to) European cars, CIA weaponry, and, not least of all, the toilet habits of furry rodents.  And yet, as me and my colleague Mo Shaunette walked out of a screening of the film last Saturday, we agreed on one thing: that there wasn’t much to review.

            It’s true.  “Spy,” for all its make-em-laugh bluster, is a superficial, deeply unimaginative action farce.  There may be some novelty to the idea of planting the highly American Melissa McCarthy in a faux-James Bond flick (she plays the pratfalling rookie agent Susan Cooper).  But the movie’s determined reliance on Bondian tropes only betrays its fear of dispatching its grandiosely bumbling heroine into even vaguely original territory.

            Of course, “Spy” has one asset—a multifaceted, primarily female cast (including Rose Byrne, Miranda Hart, and Allison Janney).  With any luck, the movie’s box office success will allow its talented actresses to pop up in comedies that don’t desperately beg you to laugh at the sight of a mouse crawling on a woman’s blouse.

Movie Review: "Far From The Madding Crowd" (Thomas Vinterberg, 2015)

A NEW CROWD, MORE MILD THAN MAD by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Bathsheba reborn--Carey Mulligan is Thomas Hardy's heroine.  Photo ©Fox Searchlight Pictures

I’m not sure how to begin.  As I sit here typing, thinking back on “Far From the Madding Crowd” (a period picture by director Thomas Vinterberg), I can’t help feeling conflicted.  It is not as if I abhorred the film.  Quite the contrary; it’s a thoughtful and thought-provoking story of love and class in 1800s England. 

Yet staring at its serene images of sloping fields and grubbily cheery farms, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy.  Those images are lovely, yes, but they would feel more at home on a dainty postcard than in an emotionally rippling narrative feature.  Translation: for all its sincerity and precision, Mr. Vinterberg’s movie never moves with the poetic force that it ought to.

            “Far From the Madding Crowd” begins (and ends) with Bathsheba.  She is played by Carey Mulligan, who we first see dressed in some kind of amber leather top, a perfect match for her cacao-colored mane.  Bathsheba is of no significant social stature; all the more remarkable that her uncle should bequeath her not only money, but an entire farm as her dominion.

            Great power doesn’t come with great responsibility only in superhero blockbusters.  As Bathsheba sits at her desk facing her new posse of farm workers, you can see both her determination to rule them and her quivering trepidation of doing the same.  Indeed, Bathsheba’s newfound power is the core of the movie—what pits her against the fiercely-principled shepherd Gabriel Oak (Mathias Schoenaerts) and beckons the romantic overtures of the prosperous farmer William Boldwood (Michael Sheen).

            I’m simplifying matters of course; Oak’s stoic compassion makes him far more than a noble foil and Boldwood’s obsessive affection singles him out as something more sincere (and more dangerous) than a suitor whose fancy has only lightly turned to love.  But isn’t Mr. Vinterberg guilty of simplifying matters himself?  In adapting the film from Thomas Hardy’s novel, he inherited a panoply of characters whose foibles render them recognizably human.  And how does he evoke their humanity?  Via images as hollow and static as those of a mid-range television production. 

            Just think what Terrence Malick might have done with this material!  In his hands, Mr. Vinterberg’s delicate flourishes (like a close-up a bumpy-skinned toad) and lush pallet of grassy greens might have risen to become swirling expressions of the mind storms that rage within Bathsheba, Boldwood, and Oak.  As it is, the job of stirring up some metaphorical blood is left to the actors.

             In the main, they all do a fine job of it.  Yet the man of these two hours is clearly Tom Sturridge.  Flouncing about as the nasty cavalry officer Francis Troy, he both beguiles and torments the indomitable Bathsheba.  Yet it is the image of him waiting for a different woman that stays with you.  Realizing that he’s been stood up, Troy shivers, looking at once tearful and terrifying.  Mr. Sturridge barely moves an inch during that scene.  Yet he convinces you that he’s capable of spitting righteous, selfish bitterness, even if the film around him isn’t.  

Movie Review: "Tomorrowland" (Brad Bird, 2015)

FEEBLE LIGHT by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Casey (Brit Robertson) glimpses Tomorrowland for the first time.  Photo ©Walt Disney Pictures

There is a moment, early in Brad Bird’s bouncy sci-fi adventure “Tomorrowland,” when the intrepid teenager Casey Newton (Brit Robertson) journeys to a Cape Canaveral launch pad, armed with a motorcycle and a prototypically rebellious leather jacket.  She’s there to sabotage a crane (because oh no!  The launch pad’s going to be demolished!) and to make good on her lust for adventure.  So why does movie around her never drip with the passion of a bright kid burning with ambition? 

            Visual sterility is one explanation.  Casey lives with her dad and her brother in a sleek modernist house that looks as if it were snipped from a cheap knockoff of Dwell magazine.  That semblance of security vanishes, however, when Casey beholds a towering futuristic city—Tomorrowland, a realm where sterling scientists and artists work to “make the world a better place” (as opposed to making it worse, I suppose?).  They’re lorded over by the icy David Nix (Hugh Laurie), who believes that life on Earth will soon end in nuclear fire.  Let the world burn, Nix says.  Needless to say, the always idealistic Casey violently disagrees. 

Are you bored yet?  Of course you are; “Tomorrowland” has enough pseudo-philosophical blather and wacky twists and turns to (almost) upstage “Avengers: Age of Ultron.”  But more perplexingly, it features surprisingly little of its titular metropolis.  Early on, Casey finds herself amidst Tomorrowland’s gloriously smooth towers, which are orbited by white-walled, glass-floored trains.  But these wondrous visions are mere blinks and soon, Casey is left back on Earth, scrambling in the dirt as she searches for a way back to the movie’s high-tech promised land.

            I admire Mr. Bird’s restraint.  By keeping our time in Tomorrowland to a minimum, he builds the place into a mysterious, mythological domain, amping up the giddy sensation of guessing what wonders it might contain.  But he takes too long to get there.  Thus, what should have been a grandiose summer epic feels oddly muted.  Where are the lush digital vistas?  Where are the awe-inviting feats of daring do?  Later, later—first, Casey has to go on a road trip to find George Clooney.

            Mr. Clooney (who plays Casey’s grumpy guide, Frank Walker) doesn’t have any more success animating “Tomorrowland” than Ms. Robertson does (her chirpy “let’s save the world!” shtick screams Green Peace activism, not summer movie heroism).  Yet the movie does posses moments of transcendence, like the climactic scene where Nix rails against humanity, berating people for craving and fetishizing destruction via movies and video games.  “They didn’t fear their demise!” he rants.  “They repackaged it!” 

            That moment is stiff and bland, as cinematic speechifying so often is.  Yet it crystallizes the movie’s touching belief in the power of optimism to affect genuine change.  True, “Tomorrowland” is too generic and visually dull to ring with real hope.  But there is something to both Nix’s aggrieved preaching and the early montage where Casey’s high school teachers rail about dystopia and mutually assured destruction.  In the midst of that crowing, Casey seems to be the only one willing to ask a question of true import:

            “What can we do to fix it?”

Anatomy of a Scene: Victor Says His Vows "Corpse Bride" (Tim Burton and Mike Johnson, 2005)

A FEW SIMPLE VOWS by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Victor van Dort (voiced by Johnny Depp) in "Corpse Bride." Photo ©Warner Bros. Pictures

“With this candle…with this candle….”  Victor can’t get his vows right.  The bride is quavering.  The priest is seething through his towering beard.  And all Victor can do is tremble atop his stick-like legs.

            It’s a bust.  “This wedding cannot take place!” the priest growls.  Dismayed, Victor wanders the forest, hobbling amongst its claw-like trees.  And suddenly he realizes: “It’s just a few simple vows.”

            Rising, he begins: “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.  Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.  With this candle, I will light your way in darkness.  With this ring, I ask you to be mine.”